


as my heart bursts in the night (hold my hand)

by leocantus



Series: take my hand we’ll dive into the sea [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Metaverse (Persona 5), Crossdressing, Id Fic, M/M, Minor Yakuza Stuff, Smut, failed attempt at a PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leocantus/pseuds/leocantus
Summary: —but for someone whose whole job is to be whatever it is a customer needs to convince them to come back at least one more time, he himself had been hooked from the first time he’d been pinned like a butterfly to a board by Iwai-san’s gaze, nothing but pure self-assurance in the line of his shoulders, in the way he sat, thighs slightly parted. There was power enough in that look to have Akira at his feet in a second.or: akira’s an unstoppable force and iwai’s an immovable object but sometimes they seem to get that mixed up
Relationships: Amamiya Ren/Iwai Munehisa, Iwai Munehisa/Kurusu Akira, Iwai Munehisa/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: take my hand we’ll dive into the sea [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944112
Comments: 25
Kudos: 124





	as my heart bursts in the night (hold my hand)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serendicity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendicity/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bad Beat Baby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23939824) by [RayShippouUchiha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RayShippouUchiha/pseuds/RayShippouUchiha). 



> this is pure ID fic that i wrote feverishly over the course of a long weekend. it was meant to be just porn but we can all see how well that turned out.
> 
> even though this was written mostly for me myself and i, i would have never gotten the motivation(?) to write it if it hadn't had been for the tireless efforts of [serendicity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendicity/pseuds/serendicity) (@[feminamachina](https://twitter.com/feminamachina) on twitter) to get every single human on this earth to ship iwaipego with her. it turns out that it also her birthday month so like, happy (early/belated) birthday!!

“Eyes up.”  
  
Akira flicks his gaze up to the ceiling, and with a deft twist of her wrist a wet line of eyeliner is carefully applied.  
  
“You know Ren-chan,” Lala-chan says after a moment of silent work, smoky voice sounding both exasperated and amused, “you should probably learn how to do your own makeup at some point.”  
  
Akira gives her a winning smile. “Why do that when I have you, Lala-chan?”  
  
Lala-chan finishes applying the mascara to his fake lashes, and then swats Akira on the arm with the back of her hand. “You're lucky you're so cute, Ren-chan.”  
  
Akira's laugh trails behind him like smoke on the wind as he slips out of the bathroom and towards his bag so he can get changed for work.  
  
It's the purple dress tonight: high-collared, short-sleeved, with a slit up the thigh. Classes are picking up, and the majority of Akira's classmates are useless, empty things, so it's like a pressure valve being released, a sigh of relief, to slip into something — be some _one_ — a little more comfortable. Akira carefully pulls on stockings to match, dabs on some perfume, and then slides on his shoes and heads out to the bar.  
  
Though it's not really like him, Akira had arrived in Tokyo with nothing more than a hope and a prayer. Getting accepted into Todai, especially after— well, especially with his history, it was a port in a storm that Akira grabbed hold of with both hands. But it meant he left for Tokyo without much of a plan— without much of anything, if he was honest. Certainly no preparations. He managed to find a room above a coffee shop for much cheaper than anything else going in Tokyo so long as he agreed to help out in the shop occasionally, and a job in a bar over in Shinjuku just _until_. But 'until' never came, and now two months into his autumn term Akira doesn't see himself going anywhere else.  
  
If you asked Akira, it's because he likes the work, and he likes his boss, and he even likes his customers, 90% of the time. But if you asked Lala-chan... then she'd say that really, it's only one customer in particular.  
  
Akira doesn't look up from where he's serving a group of salarymen at the bar; he's not so unprofessional as to have his attention wander so obviously, but somehow he doesn't need to to know that it's Iwai-san who steps through the a door, a little frisson of awareness going through his body.  
  
He finishes pouring the last beer. Makes sure their hands brush a little as he hands it over, peering up at the man through his lashes. Has him hook, line, and sinker as he takes their yen and counts out their change. Another repeat customer.  
  
Once they’ve shuffled off to one of the tables, Lala-chan approaches with a glass of top shelf whiskey served neat, and says, "Here, take this to your man in the corner."  
  
With his back to the rest of the bar, Akira feels free to roll his eyes, and then again as Lala-chan starts laughing, but he does as he's told because, well, any excuse really.  
  
This is what he knows: Iwai Munehisa-san doesn't come in regularly for all he's a regular, but he always sits at the table in the back and they always bring out his drink to him, and no money ever exchanges hands during the course of the night. He likes his whiskey neat, but occasionally he’ll order a scotch on the rocks. He sucks his way through lollipops like it’s his new religion, and likes the cherry red flavour best based on the number of times Akira has seen him unwrap a new one and curl his tongue around it. He has a plethora of tattoos: what looks like a gecko on his neck, and splashes of red and fangs on his arms when his sleeves slide up. And the service, the tattoos— it doesn’t necessarily _mean_ anything; he could be a close friend of Lala-chan’s, and nowadays there’s a growing number of people getting tattoos, foreigners coming over and changing the meaning of them. And Lala-chan hasn’t said anything, hasn’t even so much as _hinted_ at anything to him...   
  
But Akira's gut says he’s Yakuza, and Akira has learned to always listen to his instincts.  
  
Living way out in the sticks, Yakuza wasn't anything he ever had to pay any mind to, so he wonders if it's his country boy mindset that has him so endlessly fascinated or if there’s something else—  
  
(That he finds Iwai-san's gruff nature, low voice, and rugged features highly attractive goes without saying; he's not fooling himself into thinking this is a purely intellectual venture.)  
  
—but for someone whose whole job is to be whatever it is a customer needs to convince them to come back at least one more time, he himself had been hooked from the first time he’d been pinned like a butterfly to a board by Iwai-san’s gaze, nothing but pure self-assurance in the line of his shoulders, in the way he sat, thighs slightly parted. There was power enough in that look to have Akira at his feet in a second.  
  
He sets the glass down on a paper napkin in front of him with a bow and a murmured, “Here you go, Iwai-san.” Iwai-san’s gaze feels like a weight, like an intimate caress, like a hand on his shoulder pushing him to his knees. Akira considers and discards a dozen different reactions, before meeting his gaze boldly and allowing his dark painted lips to curl up into a smirk. “Please let me know how I can be of service.”  
  
He bows again and goes to retreat, but his wrist is grabbed before he can make his escape. Akira tamps down on his reflexes and instead allows himself to be drawn back. “Yes, Iwai-san?”  
  
Iwai-san clicks his lollipop over to the other corner of his mouth, even as it tips up in what Akira hopes is amusement, and Akira feels weak at the flash of tongue. “Tell Lala-chan to open up the back room. I’m expecting guests.”  
  
Akira gives another small bow and says, “Of course, Iwai-san.” They’re still touching, Iwai-san’s large hand encircled around his wrist. Akira imagines bruises in that size and shape there instead and fights the urge to lick his lips. “Will Iwai-san and his guests be wanting drinks served later?”  
  
“Yeah,” Iwai-san says, and this time there’s no ambiguity in the curve of his mouth. “You can come by later and take our orders.”  
  
Akira bows again, to hide the cat-smug pleasure in his expression, and then says again, “Of course, Iwai-san.” He waits for Iwai-san to release him, because he’s playing a long game here, and then hurries back to Lala-chan to carry out his orders.  
  
  
  
  
  
Over the course of the next 30 minutes, there’s a steady stream of various men ducking into the bar and heading straight for the back room, while Akira darts around collecting empty glasses and cleaning tables. He waits another five minutes after the last one, just to make sure that he is the last one, and signals to Lala-chan that he’s heading back there, rolling his eyes at her knowing smile.  
  
He knocks on the door as a warning, and then gives a quiet, “Pardon the intrusion,” as he pushes the door open. It’s hazy back there, a thick smog of cigarette smoke hanging in the air like the fog that rolls in off the pacific ocean and Akira fights the urge to wrinkle his nose at it. Not all of them are paying attention to him, seeing as how they’re in the middle of a very illegal poker game, but enough of them are that Akira is sure to school his expression, barely even bating an eyelid at the game and instead offering the room a bow. He gazes flicks over the gathered men quickly as he straightens up, lingering a beat longer on Iwai-san’s strong profile and bared arm — a bright red koi fish, swimming upstream — before moving on. It’s mostly young men with attitudes here, Akira’s age or maybe a little older, with only one or two being around Iwai-san’s age. Akira takes this all in in seconds.  
  
“Honoured guests,” he says, eyes a touch wider, voice a touch softer, and watches as one by one each man sizes him up and dismisses him as anything other than a nice view. “How may I serve you this evening?”  
  
He takes all their orders back to the bar, pours out their drinks one by one, studiously ignoring all of Lala-chan’s teasing, sets them on a tray, and returns in no time flat with another, “Pardon the intrusion,” as he pushes the door open. And then serving the correct drink to the correct person is merely a game of pairs, matching glasses-san to the whiskey sour and snake-san to the beer. He leaves Iwai-san’s fresh glass of whiskey for last, placing it down on a paper napkin in front of him and then reaching for his empty one. Iwai-san’s lollipop clicks against his teeth as he shifts it in his mouth, and that frisson of awareness sizzles down his spine again, leaving warmth in its wake.  
  
It’s as he’s straightening up that something brushes the back of his thigh, high and getting higher, and Akira tamps down on the reflex that would have him reaching for the offending hand, twisting it until either he apologised or it broke, whichever came first. The tray with its one lone glass is steady in his hands, despite the greedy, creeping hand sliding up under his dress. Akira flips through a million different reactions, planning how best to get himself out of the room without causing any offence, and then suddenly it’s gone, and Akira is glancing down to see Iwai-san gripping the other man’s wrist, an oni’s sharp fangs flowing over the muscles in his forearm.  
  
No words are said, but the young man with the wandering hands (tiger-san, Akira thinks distantly, pale lager) pales and snatches his hand back. Akira doesn’t glance at either of them as he walks slowly and steadily towards the exit but Iwai-san’s gaze is like a brand between his shoulder blades and Akira wears it for the rest of the night.  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s so late it’s early by the time he and Lala-chan are locking up and she’s counting out his pay for the night.  
  
“Good work, Ren-chan,” she says around a yawn as she gives him a little extra.  
  
“Yeah, good work,” he echoes, folding it up and hiding it away in his boot. He’s back in his jeans and t-shirt, face scrubbed clean, mundane once more, but for the long journey back being dressed as Ren-chan would just be a beacon for trouble. He slings his bag on across his torso and heads for the back door fighting back a yawn himself, already running through his timetable to figure out what assignment is due next and when.  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lala-chan says, and there’s something to the tone of her voice that makes him look back. Lala-chan looks uncharacteristically subdued, brows furrowed in what might be worry, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure out why.  
  
“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, Lala-chan,” he says, smiling until the tense line of her shoulders eases. He’s not sure how Lala-chan got caught up in Yakuza stuff, and quite frankly he’s not sure if it would be a good thing if he did, but now that he knows for sure that she is, he’s more determined than ever to stick around. He doesn’t think Lala-chan would be able to find a replacement so easy, not one that’ll stick around at least.  
  
(And finding another job that doesn’t care about his—)  
  
Besides, he thinks, remembering the vivid splash of colour spilling over Iwai-san’s muscled arms, it’s not as though it’s a _chore_ for him to remain here.  
  
Akira steps out into the cold night air, tucking the trailing ends of his scarf firmly around his neck and—  
  
—ducks, steps, and twists, light on the balls of his feet, hands coming up in a defensive—  
  
“Iwai-san?” Akira says, finally recognising the figure leaning against the wall next to the back entrance to Crossroads, teeth clicking around the lollipop in his mouth. He does not drop his guard. “Is there something I can do for you?”  
  
“Good reflexes,” he says, pushing off from the wall, but he doesn’t close the gap between them. He raises his hands, in that universal signal of _I mean you no harm_ , but there’s something a little mocking in the line of his mouth that sparks a fire inside Akira.  
  
“I have to be careful,” he says, loosening his stance and shifting his weight until it’s Ren-chan peering up at Iwai-san through his glasses, “it’s dangerous for a girl like me out here.”  
  
Iwai-san hums his agreement, lowering his hands and sliding them into his coat pocket. “And it’s a long way to Yongen Jaya from here.”  
  
Akira’s insides freeze.  
  
“Did you look me up, Iwai-san?” Akira says, once he can convince his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. It takes everything he has to keep his voice steady, keep it playful. “I’m flattered.”  
  
Iwai-san hums again. “Just getting to know all of Lala-chan’s friends,” he says, and that’s... well, he’d expected something more along the lines of Iwai-san ensuring that Akira kept his silence; that it’s on behalf of Lala-chan is... There’s a hardness to Iwai-san’s gaze. Akira swallows and nods and Akira only allows himself to unfreeze in stages when that hardness eventually melts away. Message received.  
  
Still, this is a side of Iwai-san that he didn’t expect to exist, and Akira is desperate to know more.  
  
“Well,” he says eventually, coyness hiding the way he’s rapidly fitting and refitting pieces together as he slowly completes the puzzle that is Iwai-san. “If you have any questions about me you could always just ask.”  
  
“Yeah?” Iwai-san gives a crooked grin, and Akira feels the _thu-thump_ of his heart in his chest. “What if I want to ask to walk you home? What would you say then?”  
  
Got you, Akira thinks smugly to himself. “You want to walk me home?” Akira asks, widening his eyes and softening his voice, in control now that he’s back on familiar ground.  
  
“Yeah.” Iwai-san finally closes the gap between them, two slow strides until Akira’s breath, condensed in the frigid night air, curls along his stubbled jaw. “Pretty thing like you? I’d hate to see anything happen.”  
  
“You should ask me, Iwai-san,” Akira says, standing as close as he dares, taking in the rich scent of him and letting the heat from Iwai-san’s body warm him.  
  
“Can I walk you home?” Iwai-san asks, voice gravel-low.  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
  
  
  
  
They don’t have to wait long before the first train to Shibuya goes. Iwai-san buys him a drink and some curry bread from the 7-11, and then stands real close to him as he leans against the wall to eat it. They talk, quietly, Iwai-san asking him questions and not offering much in the way of his own answers but Akira _is_ playing the long game and, all things considered, there are probably a lot of questions to which knowing the answer is a lot more dangerous than not.  
  
Iwai-san pops in a new lollipop once they’re seated on the metro, a quick flash of tongue, and a flashfire goes through Akira, the pure heat of want. At the back of his mind, all through the journey, Akira thinks about tugging it free and replacing it with his own mouth.  
  
They change over to the Den-En-Toshi line at Shibuya, and then five minutes after that they’re making the short walk from the station to Café Leblanc.  
  
“This is me,” Akira says, like Iwai-san doesn’t already know the exact dimensions of the room he’s renting.  
  
“So it is,” Iwai-san says, walking him right up to the door like a gentleman. He looms, as Akira fumbles his keys from his bag, and Akira’s body welcomes it, shifting until they could fit together like puzzle pieces.  
  
“Thank you for walking me home.” Akira’s voice comes out hushed, smothered by the early morning air between them, like a black hole that swallows all sound even as it shrinks the space between them.  
  
Iwai-san’s lids are lowered, lollipop clicking against his teeth as he shifts it in his mouth, close enough that Akira could just push up on his toes and— but then Iwai-san eases back, slowly like he’s working against gravity, hands in his coat pockets, and says, “I’ll see you later, Kurusu-kun.”  
  
Akira’s lips curl into a smile. “Of course, Iwai-san.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“Here you go, Iwai-san.”  
  
The dress is black and silver tonight. A stretchy, flimsy thing that does nothing to stop him from feeling stripped bare under Iwai-san’s intent look. Akira places the neat whiskey down on the paper napkin in front Iwai-san, wondering if the air is as charged for Iwai-san as it is for Akira, like the static before a storm. Akira is a great many things, of which _deceiver_ is one, but never for himself. He’s not seeing things that aren’t there, but maybe Iwai-san is playing some kind of game. It’s okay though because Akira never loses those.  
  
“Ren-chan,” Iwai-san says and it’s a caress. He’s wearing the same coat as always, but Akira sees, as he shrugs it off, that underneath he’s swapped out his turtleneck for a longsleeved jumper — likely in deference for the coming winter — dark and clingy across his broad shoulders and strong arms. Frothing waves and splashes of red peek out from under the sleeves and Akira reminds himself that he can’t touch, not yet. “Are you working late tonight?”  
  
It’s a somewhat innocuous question — nothing like the weighted words from last night — but out of everything that’s happened so far, it’s those words that heat his cheeks like the innocent he no longer is. Akira ignores it through sheer force of will. “Yes, Iwai-san, I’m working until closing tonight.”  
  
Iwai-san rolls his lollipop in his mouth and gives a crooked smile. “You gonna let me walk you home again?”  
  
Akira’s painted lips curve into an answering smile. “A big, strong man like you? How could I say no?”  
  
Iwai-san huffs out a laugh, and Akira feels a little thrill of triumph. “Yeah,” he says, “I’ll take care of you.” He pulls his lollipop free and reaches for his drink. “Wait for me, Ren-chan.”  
  
“Of course, Iwai-san.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Although Iwai-san said he’d be waiting, Akira isn’t terribly used to people keeping their word to him, so there’s a small jolt of surprise when Akira steps out of Crossroads to see Iwai-san leaning against the wall, unwrapping a new lollipop. He’s as devastating as the last time Akira saw him, never mind that it had only been mere hours earlier.  
  
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Iwai-san,” Akira says, pulling the door shut firmly behind so that the latch catches. The cold of the night air is like a physical force; Akira doesn’t know how Iwai-san could stand to wait out here for any period of time.  
  
“Nah.” He sticks his lollipop into his mouth and then pushes up from the wall, closing the distance between them until the rich scent of him envelops Akira once more. “Haven’t been waiting all that long at all.”  
  
The walk to the station is quiet but not silent. Akira talks about small bits of his past, present, and future, pleased when Iwai-san offers small bits in return. He gets a tuna onigiri this time, courtesy of Iwai-san, and when the train arrives they sit pressed close together despite the sparse crowd this early in the morning.  
  
The rising sun is lighting the streets in shades of fire by the time they turn onto his road. Akira tips his face to it for a moment during a lull in the conversation, and then digs a hand into his bag for his keys as they draw closer to the cafe.  
  
“Thank you, Iwai-san,” he says as they stop in front of his door. They’re as close as they’ve been all night, like they’re tethered together. The whole cant of Akira’s body is inviting, and Iwai-san leans into it enough that Akira chances a touch, hands skimming up the front of Iwai-san’s coat to curl fingers around his collar under the guise of straightening it. “One good deed deserves another, don’t you think?”  
  
“Does it?” Iwai-san’s hands remain in his pockets, but similarly he shows no desire to move away. Akira counts it as a win.  
  
“Undoubtedly.” Akira strokes his fingers over the fur at the edges of Iwai-san’s hood, body thrumming with anticipation. “You should be sure to collect your reward from me, Iwai-san.”  
  
The world slows, stops, hanging on the precipice.  
  
And then the corner of Iwai-san’s mouth kicks up in his crooked smile and Akira knows the moment is lost.  
  
“Hmm.” Iwai-san reaches up to cover Akira’s hands at his neck, and large and warm they envelop Akira’s hands as he gently tugs them away. “I’ll see you later, Kurusu-kun. Maybe I’ll collect that favour from you then.”  
  
Pulling back feels like having to gently untangling themselves from each other. “Of course, Iwai-san.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Having met the other members of Iwai-san’s clan, it’s no surprise he starts seeing them everywhere: glasses-san on his way to the university library, eyebrows-san outside of Big Bang Burger, dragon-san near the National Diet Building. The Baader-meinhof phenomenon, he thinks. It won’t be because they’re following him, mostly because in the grand scheme of things, he’s just not that important, but also because their eyes, when they do see him, just glance over him. No recognition. Evidently all Akira needs to do to just disappear is put on his glasses; maybe those American comics were onto something.  
  
It does make him wonder how many pies they have their fingers into. Akira’s sure he could work it out if he put some work into it — and his boss at the cafe, Sojiro-san, has a daughter who’s a whizz with computers — but when running his insatiable curiosity up against the threat of the Yakuza, Akira’s not sure he’ll be the one to come out on top.  
  
The one person he wouldn’t mind seeing out and about has been strangely scarce though. The both of them don’t seem exist together outside of their quiet walks home in the early hours of the morning, and the way he feels in between those moments, Akira can only describe it as yearning.  
  
He’s still thinking about it when he meets up with his Ethics group in the Diner in Shibuya. These classmates are slightly less empty than the others, and Akira has managed to manoeuvre them to where he wants them enough that these meetings are no longer excruciating. He hasn’t taken the reins here, given over to the little sister of a famous prosecutor instead, who is a godsend despite the pretensions such a status might contain. If it were the two of them, this project might have been completed some time ago, but as it stands their progress is a little slow. They end up working late into the evening, dark by the time they call it a day and say their goodbyes. Akira is among the first to step outside, and the cold air smells like freedom.  
  
Spotting a uniform just across from the Diner entrance is enough to sully the feeling, and instinctively Akira turns his face away, shoulders hunching, body folding in on itself to make him as unremarkable as possible. Forming a habit doesn’t take long — about 66 days, on average — but Akira prefers to think of it as a hard lesson learned. Police officers are all the same, after all. There are a lot more police officers out and about here in Tokyo than they ever were back were he grew up, and of course that makes sense but it also leaves Akira feeling like a trap is closing in around him.  
  
He heads away from the police officer, still keeping them in his periphery, and spots a familiar figure walking by as he does.  
  
Speaking of the devil. “Iwai-san,” he calls out, hurrying through the crowded streets after him. The hurrying isn’t necessary in the end; Iwai-san is standing waiting for him, expression clearing as Akira appears in front of him. Something settles in him at that, as he closes the gap between them. The busy streets of Shibuya are a far cry from the darkened corner of a bar in Shinjuku, or the liminal space of the early morning and Akira is pleased to see that Iwai-san is happy for them to exist out here too. Especially since he takes no steps to create space between them, or to stop Akira’s hands from finding purchase on his coat.  
  
“Kurusu-kun,” Iwai-san greets quietly, “classes done for the day?”  
  
Akira shakes his head. “Study group,” he says, “but we’re done for the night now. It’s a good thing we bumped into each other though; maybe you can collect that reward you’re owed.”  
  
Iwai-san gives a quiet laugh. “Just the one? I’d better choose carefully.”  
  
“You can collect as many times as you’d like, Iwai-san. I owe you a lot after all.” His smile is cat-smug again, teasing, but he doesn’t think today’s the day that Iwai-san will say yes. Still, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, so Akira doesn’t let up, and sure enough his efforts are rewarded. Iwai-san laughs again, slides a hand out of his pockets so he can fit it to Akira’s hip, thumb brushing over his stomach.  
  
Akira’s breath shudders out of him, and Iwai-san gaze goes heavy-lidded, hot, for a moment before he tucks it all away again. “ Y ou eaten yet? Come grab something with me.”  
  
Akira is spellbound. “Of course, Iwai-san.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“Ren-chan.”  
  
Though he wouldn’t class the noise in the bar as a din, there’s a constant murmur of sound hanging in the air of Crossroads like its own atmospheric layer, occasionally interspersed with the starburst sound of laughter. Still, Iwai-san doesn’t even need to raise his voice much for Akira to hear him, attention grabbed like they’re tuned to the same frequency.  
  
The customer he’s currently dealing with has clearly had one too many, but apparently that’s the right number of drinks needed to try his hand at seducing the waitress. Akira has been talking him around and around in circles, gently and deftly rebuffing each and every attempt at flirting without causing any offence, and after the first grab at his wrist, he’s been shifting and swaying his body away from overly eager hands.  
  
But Iwai-san’s voice tugs at him, and it also provides the perfect excuse to escape. Akira makes his apologies, bows, and exits the situation, weaving through crowd of inebriated bodies towards the table at the back.  
  
“Iwai-san,” he greets, strangely out of breath when he arrives, “how may I be of service?” and Iwai-san—  
  
Iwai-san’s eyes burn as they look at Akira.  
  
Anger, Akira thinks, mind racing as he tries to understand where he misstepped, what went wrong, calculating and recalculating. Akira _fumbles_ , caught off guard, his endless font of words running dry, but all Iwai-san says is, “Another one of those,” nodding to the empty glass of scotch on the table, condensation still dripping down the sides to soak into the napkin it’s sitting on, and internally Akira breathes a sigh of relief.  
  
“Of course, Iwai-san,” Akira says, snatching up the empty glass to take away.  
  
He doesn’t dally though, hurrying over to the bar to pull down a fresh glass, dropping an ice cube inside before pouring the scotch over it before returning to Iwai-san’s table.  
  
“Here’s your drink, Iwai-san,” he says when he arrives, laying the napkin down first before placing the glass in front of him. Iwai-san’s hand snakes out, wrapping around Akira’s wrist before he can withdraw it, thumbing right over the pulse point where, Akira thinks with a dawning realisation, his previous customer had almost touched him.  
  
“I’ll be walking you home again tonight, Ren-chan,” Iwai-san says, still stroking over the thin skin of his wrist, a point of distraction. “When you’re done here,” he continues, voice low, but Akira hears it regardless, body so attuned. “Wait for me.”  
  
Here, in the low lights at the back of the bar, the rest of the world easily fades away. Akira hears only Iwai-san’s words, and the _thu-thump_ of his runaway heartbeat.  
  
“Of course, Iwai-san,” he says, entangled in his own web.  
  
It’s only later, as he’s wiping down the counter, that he realises that his reflexes — vicious and hard-won — had not triggered at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
The walk to the station is quieter this time. Akira steals glances at Iwai-san’s profile from time to time but there’s something forbidding about his expression, and Akira knows well enough when not to push.  
  
He’s not hungry, so he only picks up a drink from the 7-11, and sips it slowly while they wait on the platform. They’re truly in the midsts of winter now, and Akira is feeling it, even through his newly bought winter coat. He should probably invest in a pair of gloves, but he doesn’t like the muffled, clumsy feel they give his hands. Still, it means that his hands better resemble a block of ice by the time he puts his drink away, and there’s still five more minutes until the train arrives.  
  
Iwai-san’s hands are warm where they close around his, almost hot to touch. He tugs them down from where Akira had been blowing on them, and slides them into his fur-lined pockets alongside his own. Iwai-san’s hands are large, rough, and envelop Akira’s hands completely, and despite the cold, Akira feels his cheeks heat even as he spreads his fingers and fits their hands together.  
  
They don’t speak much for the rest of the journey, but then again they don’t really need to. Iwai-san offers a, “I’ll see you later, Kurusu-kun,” as they arrives at his door and Akira gives his customary, “Of course, Iwai-san,” in return. And when the door to the cafe is shut closed behind him, Akira allows himself a moment to bask in the warmth that still lingers.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Is that you, Ren-chan?” Lala-chan calls down to him from the employee room.  
  
“Who else are you giving a key out to, Lala-chan?” Akira calls back as he climbs the stairs two at a time.  
  
“I think you’re too young to hear the answer to that, Ren-chan,” Lala-chan returns with a husky laugh, and Akira waits until he walks into the employee room to roll his eyes at her just so she can see it.  
  
Lala-chan laughs again, and then says, expression suddenly sly, “That’s right, you have yourself a new man now. Ren-chan is such a lucky girl.”  
  
Akira swats her on the arm as he dumps his bag on a chair. “I didn’t think you were the type to gossip, Lala-chan.”  
  
Lala-chan sticks her nose in the air as though insulted. “If Ren-chan wanted to keep it a secret maybe she shouldn’t flirt so shamelessly while at work,” she says and, well, Akira has no response to that, because she right on two accounts: a lot of their interactions occur while he’s working, and he definitely feels no shame about it.  
  
Akira opens his mouth to respond anyway, but the air around Lala-chan turns sombre and Akira lets his smile drop. “Is there something wrong, Lala-chan?” he says instead, but she’s shaking her head before he’s even finished speaking.  
  
“No, Ren-chan, nothing wrong. Just— you know Munehisa is a good friend of mine, yes?”  
  
Akira nods, wondering where she’s going with this, wondering if this is the moment where she warns him away.  
  
“Well,” she continues hesitantly, as though expecting some level of backlash, “if he’s pressuring you I can speak to him, Ren-chan,” and Akira just. stops. for a moment, looking at her.  
  
Leaving for Tokyo with nothing but a hope and a prayer meant that while he didn’t leave anyone behind when he left, he didn’t have anyone waiting for him here when he arrived. And he’s used to not being able to really rely on anyone but himself, but he always viewed it as some immutable aspect of himself. He never thought it could change, and he never thought it’d be here in Tokyo that he’d find people to change it.  
  
“It’s okay, Lala-chan,” he says eventually, after he swallows around the blockage in his throat. “If anything, Iwai-san is definitely moving too slow.”  
  
Lala-chan laughs again, dispelling the weight of the moment. “Well then this might cheer you up,” she says, pulling out a large box from behind her and placing it on the table.  
  
It doesn’t take a genius to realise that this is a gift from Iwai-san. Akira’s heartbeat kicks up in his chest as he reaches for it, and he’s very careful about untying the ribbon and lifting off the lid. Nestled amidst layers of crushed tissues paper is a splash of a bright, bold red. Akira gently lifts it free, and then lets the spill of material tumble free.  
  
It’s a dress. Somewhat pricey if he had to judge from the feel of the material. Cut high in the neck, with inset lace to offer a teasing flash of skin. Long and double slitted at up to the thigh. Absolutely breathtaking.  
  
Akira gapes somewhat unattractively at the dress, and then at Lala-chan, as he holds the dress up to his body. He prides himself on his ability to predict people but maybe something like this — whatever _this_ is — can’t be distilled down to a series of calculations. “Did you have anything to do with this, Lala-chan?”  
  
“I might have,” Lala-chan says, teasing, but she looks genuinely pleased, genuinely happy at the development. Akira feels an answering giddy feeling bubble up inside him.  
  
“Iwai-san is kind of serious, isn’t he, Lala-chan?” It’s rhetorical, but Lala-chan’s warm smile is answer enough.  
  
He hurries to the bathroom to try it on, dumping his clothes in a pile on the ground so he can squeeze into his new dress. The mirror in the bathroom isn’t really made for this purpose, but Akira peers at himself in it anyway as he smooths his hands down the front of the dress. He doesn’t have much in the way of hips or a waist, but this dress certainly does its best.  
  
It’s Ren-chan who steps out of the bathroom, standing with a hip cocked to one side and a smile on his lips as he models for Lala-chan, who oohs and aahs appreciatively.  
  
“Honestly, Ren-chan,” she says as he gives a slow turn so she can see the back, “if you wear that to work tonight there’s no way Munehisa won’t give you what you want.”  
  
Akira gives a slow grin over his shoulder. “I’m counting on it.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“Ren-chan.”  
  
The familiar voice from behind him, a low rumble right by his ear, sends a shock right through him. The bar had been surprisingly busy for the hour and Akira’s attention had been scattered to all four corners, so he’d lost track of the time, had no idea when Iwai-san had stepped inside Crossroads.  
  
And if he’d had less control over himself he might have jumped, but instead he gets that familiar feeling of awareness prickling down his spine. He finishes setting down the empty glasses at the bar and then turns, lips already parted to greet him.  
  
He’s wearing the dress, of course — as if there was any other possibility that night — and Lala-chan had so kindly done his makeup to match, so he’s expecting some reaction from Iwai-san tonight but...  
  
The heat of his gaze sears itself into his skin. Akira’s words dry up in his mouth once his eyes land on Iwai-san, and though Iwai-san remains a respectable distance away, hands in the pocket of his winter coat, Akira feels _hunted_.  
  
“Ren-chan,” Iwai-san says again when Akira fails to respond but nothing more, seemingly content to stand there and let his gaze take a lazy walk down the length of Akira’s body.  
  
Something bubbles low in his stomach in a way that quickens his pulse. If Akira were anyone else he might think it’s nervousness, but it’s likely more akin to anticipation than anything else.  
  
“Good evening, Iwai-san,” he manages after a moment, blood rushing in his ears.  
  
“Yeah,” Iwai-san says, almost absently, and then, “do you like it, Ren-chan?”  
  
“Yes, Iwai-san,” he says, as if ‘like’ is great enough a word for what he feels right now. The keigo to thank him rests on the tip of his tongue, teasing as usual, but Akira swallows it and offers up, “It’s gorgeous; thank you,” instead.  
  
Iwai-san’s teeth clack against the lollipop in his mouth as his mouth twitches into his familiar crooked smile but there’s still a hunger in his eyes. “I’m glad,” he says, stepping back as though he’s about to _walk away_ and Akira reaches out without thinking, hooking his fingers onto his sleeve.  
  
“Will you walk me home tonight, Iwai-san?” He tries for a smile, but he thinks he ends up showing more of his hand than he meant to with it. “It’s not safe for a girl like me out there.”  
  
There’s no strength to his hold but Iwai-san stops anyway, just at the barest touch. “Yeah,” he says, after a nerve-wracking moment of silence. “Wait for me, Ren-chan.”  
  
There’s a lot of relief in his smile this time. “Of course, Iwai-san.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Akira is hungrier than usual this time and ends up getting two sticks of karaage from the 7-11 in the station and leans against the wall on the platform as he eats it.  
  
“Do you want some, Iwai-san?” he asks, offering up his remaining stick. It’s probably the first he’s spoken outside of a quiet greeting as he met Iwai-san outside of Crossroads, but for once Akira is struggling to find words.  
  
Iwai-san doesn’t answer with words, instead pulling free his ever present lollipop with one hand and wrapping the other over Akira’s where it holds the karaage. The way he ducks his head and tugs a piece of karaage free with his teeth is unbelievably erotic; Akira wonders if there is anything this man can do that he won’t find attractive.  
  
“Thanks,” Iwai-san says after he’s finished swallowing and Akira wordlessly offers more. Like that they finish the rest of the food in time for when the train arrives.  
  
Once they’re seated, pressed together as is their habit, Akira takes a chance and fits himself to Iwai-san’s side, arm pulled around him until Iwai-san slides it around his waist, slotting into place like it was made to be there. Iwai-san breathes out a laugh and Akira buries his own laugh in Iwai-san’s coat.  
  
“I bet you’re an only child; you’re far too used to getting your own way.”  
  
Akira’s laugh is louder that time, and that seems to shatter the strange tension between them because cuddled together like that, tension leeches from Iwai-san and Akira manages to find his words and they talk quietly for the rest of the journey.  
  
It’s still dark when they come out the other side, exiting the station at Yongen Jaya and walking down the road to the cafe. With winter really and truly being here, it feels like Akira spends his days in darkness, rising to it and leaving classes in it. Right now, walking wrapped in Iwai-san’s arms, instead it only feels like the world is theirs.  
  
“Iwai-san,” Akira says as they draw close to his door, “you never said what you thought earlier. How did I look?”  
  
“Brat. You know exactly what I thought.” He sounds fond, Akira thinks, and he curls a smile up at him as they stop in front of the cafe.  
  
“Did you like it, Iwai-san?” _Do you like me?_ he doesn’t ask despite how much he wants to, like some kid still in high school.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, understated and quiet yet still somehow managing to convey so much. Akira basks in it in the circle of his arms, thinks about how now would be perfect, how he could tug free Iwai-san’s lollipop, tug Iwai-san down and—  
  
There’s a weight to the way Iwai-san is looking at him. Akira's heartbeat picks up, especially when Iwai-san does pull his lollipop free, and then—  
  
“Hold onto this for me.”  
  
Akira stalls, mouth opening automatically, _unthinkingly_ , from where Iwai-san taps his lollipop on his bottom lip, and his tongue curls around it in much the same manner as it's placed inside. Heat explodes inside him as the taste of cinnamon bursts onto his tongue and only Iwai-san's arms around him keep him steady. Akira flicks a tongue out and licks the residue off his bottom lip and it’s Iwai-san’s turn to shudder out a breath.  
  
Fingers dig into his hips, draw him in flush, and the feeling of Iwai-san’s body against his imprints itself in all of his senses. “I'll see you later, Kurusu-kun,” Iwai-san says, as though it’s a great effort to do so.  
  
He sounds as ruined as Akira feels but somehow Akira doesn’t think the victory is his. “Of course, Iwai-san.”  
  
(Later, Akira lies in bed with a hand fisted around his cock and two fingers crooked into his ass, and he comes and comes and comes to the taste of cinnamon on his tongue.)  
  
  
  
  
  
The door chimes, and from the storeroom where Akira had ducked into briefly in order to restock the beans he calls out a “Welcome! I’ll be with you shortly.”  
  
It’s late; close enough to closing time that Akira could probably get away with closing up now and not even the perpetually grumpy Sojiro-san could find fault with it. Akira thought it’d be safe enough for him to run to the back, but it seems fitting that the moment he steps away from the counter a customer appears. Akira hopes they don’t get too annoyed; that is something that the perpetually grumpy Sojiro-san would definitely fault him for.  
  
The “Take your time,” he gets in response, while comforting, is also very familiar, and it’s only his quick hands that stop bag of Blue Mountain beans from spilling all over the floor.  
  
“Iwai-san?” Akira calls out as he backs out of the storeroom, balancing three bags of beans in his arms. This is something new, a deviation from the pattern. But Iwai-san seeking him out without the buffer of Crossroads between them can only be a good thing.  
  
Akira rounds the corner and—  
  
There’s is a storm brewing around Iwai-san. A dark, seething energy that turns every movement of his into pure aggression. Akira freezes, hind brain sounding the alarm before he’s able to override it and complete the motion, setting the bags down on the counter.  
  
“Kurusu-kun,” Iwai-san says, voice rough like maybe he’d been yelling. He takes a seat on one of the counter chairs, and then shrugs off his coat. He’s missing his customary lollipop, and his knuckles, Akira sees as he folds his coat onto the counter next to him, are scraped, raw and angry looking like he’d been hitting something

  
(some _one_ )  
  
blood smeared into the divots between them.  
  
Akira moves quickly to the door, flipping the sign and turning the lock. He means to ask if Iwai-san is okay, but what comes out is “Would you like some coffee, Iwai-san?”  
  
Iwai-san doesn’t say anything for a long while. Akira goes to repeat himself when he hears a quiet, “Yeah, coffee would be great.”  
  
Akira slips back behind the counter and falls into the familiar motions of brewing and pouring a cup of coffee. He slides it over in front of Iwai-san, and then says, “I’ll be right back,” before taking the stairs two at a time up to him room to grab his first aid kit and carry it back downstairs.  
  
Iwai-san doesn’t look as though he’s tried his coffee in the time Akira was away, head bowed over his hands the same way Akira left him. Akira eases onto the chair next to him, setting the kit onto the counter, and says, “Let me see your hands, Iwai-san.”  
  
Iwai-san doesn’t move, but he doesn’t move away when Akira reaches for the closest hand and starts to clean and disinfect it. He finishes bandaging it and then reaches for the other one, sliding forward on his chair for a better angle. They’re close enough now that they’re sharing the same air, that Akira can feel the heat of his body, and Akira hadn’t noticed how the distance between them had just eroded over time until it was gone.  
  
He finishes bandaging that hand too, smoothing down the ends of it as he asks, “Are you hurt anywhere else, Iwai-san?”  
  
Iwai-san shakes his head, and the relief spreading through him stutters to a stop as another thought occurs to him. Akira steels himself for the next question. “Is there... anything else we need to take care of, Iwai-san?”  
  
That seems to wake him up. Iwai-san looks up at him from where he was contemplating his coffee. They’re still holding hands, he realises. Just seems to have forgotten to let go, but neither of them are objecting. In fact, Iwai-san’s grip tightens, pulling him in, and Akira stumbles to his feet as Iwai-san says, “No,” voice still gravel rough but more from emotion this time than anything else. “No,” he says again, “just me. In this place, right now, you think only of me, okay?”  
  
His grip is tight, as though trying to hold his attention, as though there’s anything else in the cafe that could steal it, as though there exists anything that could.  
  
“Iwai-san, I-I,” he stammers, completely uselessly, wondering if this pain he’s feeling in his chest right now is what it’s like to die, and Iwai-san makes a rough, impatient noise in his throat.  
  
“God, you drive me crazy,” he says, and what little space there was between them shrinks even further. “Your mouth, your scent, you make me want to--” but Akira never finds out what because the words are lost between them as Iwai-san crushes his mouth to his. Akira’s hands find Iwai-san’s chest, an anchor, a port in a storm, and a broad hand slides into his hair. He tilts his head, welcoming, wanting, and opens up to the tongue at his lips.  
  
Iwai-san tastes of cinnamon, and his body is warm and firm, strength in every line of it, and even if Akira had imagined this for every single day of his life, it would never have compared. He whimpers, clinging, and Iwai-san curses into his mouth, chair screeching against the floor as Iwai-san finds his feet too, hungry kisses turning devouring, hand slipping from the curve of his ass up under his tshirt to the bare skin of his back.  
  
“Please,” he whispers between kisses, and Iwai-san groans his acquiescence, hooking both hands under his thighs to lift him onto the counter. There’s a thump of something hitting the floor, and a cup rattles somewhere off to the side, but Iwai-san is stepping into the vee of his thighs to take his mouth again and Akira is incandescent, he’s burning up, he’s a meteor in the sky, a dying star. Supernova.  
  
It takes him a while to realise that Iwai-san is pulling away, slowing their kisses until they’re just breathing together. Iwai-san’s eyes squeeze shut, pained, and then he steps back and Akira immediately feels cold.  
  
“I have to go, Kurusu-kun,” and Akira _mourns_ , grip turning desperate. “I’ll see you later.”  
  
Akira drags him in for another kiss, gratified at how quickly Iwai-san falls into it, and loses himself for another long while. When he pulls away they’re both completely wrecked, ragged breathing echoing in the silent cafe. Akira offers up a jagged smile.  
  
(In the end, there was only ever really one response.)  
  
“Of course, Iwai-san.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Though the time and location is different, walking through Shibuya alone as it closes in on midnight evokes a feeling of having lost something, or maybe having left something behind.  
  
They’d stayed late again, his Ethics group, one final push as they neared the end, but it was worth it to know that the project has been completed. After spending so much time with them he got to know them a little better, and in the end it hadn’t been all bad. Maybe later he might invite one or two out for a celebratory meal or something, but right now Akira can now strike it from his consciousness

  
He has other, much more important thoughts taking up space in there instead.  
  
It's been a couple of days now since that evening in the cafe, and in that time Akira has been giving Iwai-san space, has been patient — though that had been more to do with the approaching deadline of his Ethics project than any display of willpower on his part. But he's been waiting, because he knows the value of it, and now he's not, because he knows the value of that too.  
  
Iwai-san has also been scarce from Crossroads, which really should be cause for concern but... Akira’s not worried, not really. Yearning, yes, aching, definitely, but Iwai-san hadn’t wanted to leave any more than Akira had wanted him to. The way he had held him, kissed him... that kind of kiss isn’t one you just walk away from.  
  
He tells Lala-chan though, every sordid detail, because he’s gotten into the habit of telling her everything, and because she knows Iwai-san so well, and she was kind enough to part with some information of her own. Which is why, instead of heading home after a hard day of work, Akira is making his way over to Iwai-san's apartment.  
  
He'd memorised the directions on the map, not wanting to wander around Shibuya so late with his phone in his hand, and now he weaves his way through the back streets, heading towards the address given to him. Lala-chan had texted him earlier to confirm that Iwai-san would be home, but Akira walks at a fast clip through the streets, some juvenile belief of things working out nicely if he gets there fast enough.  
  
It’s probably why he ends up bumping into someone as he swings onto Iwai-san’s road. Just a brush of the shoulders, but the other man is either drunk enough or angry enough or both to feel that Akira’s quiet apology just isn’t enough. So when he lunges for Akira, he feels no guilt at putting him in the ground, the rattle of the bins Akira sends him into sounding far too loud for this sleepy street.  
  
“What’s going on here?”  
  
Akira whips around, hands still up defensively. His blood is hot, adrenaline pumping, and he’s annoyed enough that he’s willing to take it out on whoever else is looking to test his patience tonight. Except--  
  
Akira freezes as his gaze lands on two police officers.  
  
(They don’t look particularly pleased.)  
  
“Well?” one of them, the taller of the pair, barks, and Akira flinches before he can stop himself.  
  
“I was attacked, officer,” he begins, indicating to the man now lying unconscious in the trash. Part of Akira — the part that never stops calculating — is weighing up whether this will hurt or hinder his case. The numbers don’t look good. “I was forced to defend myself.”  
  
(Is that his voice? It doesn’t sound like him. Too loud, too stilted.)  
  
The officers share a look, and it takes everything he has to not back away.  
  
(Corpse-still, breathing too fast, but he doesn’t want there to be _any_ possibility of them thinking that he’s being uncooperative.)  
  
“Looks more to me that we’ve got two delinquents causing a disturbance,” says the shorter one.  
  
“Let’s see some ID,” says the other one, and Akira jerks to comply, fumbling with his bag to grab his ID out of his wallet. He holds it out, not daring to get any closer, and it’s snatched out of his hand as it’s inspected.  
  
“Yongen Jaya, huh?” he says, and Akira’s heart sinks even lower.  
  
“What are you doing out here so late?”  
  
“I-I.” Akira licks his lips and tries to calm his rabitting heart. “I was studying with some classmates. Now I’m heading to a friend’s pla—”  
  
“How much have you been drinking, huh?”  
  
(Not again.)  
  
“I haven’t been drinking anyth—”  
  
“Drugs then,” the one with his ID says, disdain in every syllable. He reaches for his face, maybe looking to check his pupils, but panic is like static over his senses and Akira’s hand snaps up automatically to push it away.  
  
(Please no.)  
  
There’s a horrifying moment of silence, and then the officer says softly, almost gleefully, “That’s assault of an officer.”  
  
(He can’t do this again.)  
  
“I think maybe we should take you back to the station.”  
  
_(_ _No_.)  
  
“‘No’?”  
  
Shit. Did he say that out loud?  
  
One of then steps forward, and Akira shifts his foot back in pure animal instinct. All he can think of is bright lights and dark flashes, of shouted words and unending pain.He can’t. He refuses to go through that again.  
  
“Please, officer, if you would _just_ —”  
  
“You two again?”  
  
The voice comes from behind him, familiar even with the burr of sleep overlaying it. Akira stares in horror over his shoulder as Iwai-san hangs out of his doorway, one foot keeping the door propped open. He’s very clearly dressed, if not for sleep, then at least for lounging around the house, in a tank top and soft pair of pyjama bottoms. His coat has been thrown on top in deference for the cold, but Iwai-san doesn’t even look as though the icy wind can even reach him through the miasma of his annoyance.  
  
“Iwai-san,” one of the officers says, in a tone of pure begrudging.  
  
Iwai-san doesn’t even dignify it with an answer, though his glare is probably answer enough. Akira has never seen Iwai-san in such a mood, and somehow all he can think, through the haze of his fear, is that this is not how he wanted this reunion to happen.  
  
“If you’re done picking on university students, maybe you can give him back his ID so we can all fucking go to sleep.”  
  
Pure panic sets his heart to racing. Akira pre-emptively winces, bracing for the retaliation that’s coming but all that happens is that his ID is shoved into his unresisting hands, and the two officers, collect the drunk in the trash and slouch off.  
  
Like a star collapsing inwards, Akira’s adrenaline crashes out and his knees buckle beneath him. He drops to the ground but he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel much of anything right now, except for the ringing in his ears and the band around his chest.  
  
“Akira,” Iwai-san says, arms suddenly around him, but his voice comes from far away, like it’s echoing from across the cosmos, and by the time it reaches him the words have lost all meaning.  
  
He’s pulled to his feet, and then he’s pulled off his feet, and Akira lays his head against the warm chest under it, and lets himself drift.  
  
  
  
  
  
Akira blinks his eyes open to the morning light. He has a stark moment of disassociation, that opposite feeling to _déja vu_ where everything is strange and nothing is real, and then the world realigns and Akira remembers.  
  
He’s in Iwai-san’s apartment— in Iwai-san’s _bed_ , and that sends a little forbidden thrill through him. Iwai-san had insisted, after helping Akira calm down. Had put him to bed and had told him they’d talk later, which makes sense because Akira had been half asleep by that point. He thinks he might have tried arguing, not wanting to kick Iwai-san out of his own bed, especially after causing him so much trouble. He must not have been very convincing, he thinks with a smile, but he can accept it this time.  
  
(He thinks he might have wished Iwai-san a good night, thinks he might have received a kiss in return. Thinks he might have heard him say, “I’m glad you’re here,” but, well, he had been half asleep by that point, hadn’t he?)  
  
He’s still in his clothes from last night he realises, as he stretches under the covers, which is sweet, and sitting up sees Iwai-san asleep on the floor next to him, which is infinitely sweeter.  
  
Akira props his head on his hands and just looks at him. He looks different while he sleeps, but then again most people do. There’s a laxness to his features that suggest a softness that isn’t usually there, robs him of usual intense focus. There’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw that Akira would like to feel against his skin, and the pale line of a scar that disappears beneath his tank top. Akira stares and stares and, unable to bear it any longer, lets his hand fall to the floor so he can brush soft fingers through his hair, trace the line of his brows and his nose and the bow of his lips.  
  
A large hand closes over his, and Iwai-san’s eyes flutter open.  
  
“Whoops,” Akira says, completely unrepentant, and Iwai-san rolls his eyes at him, sitting up with a flex of his stomach muscles.  
  
“Hey,” he says, voice sleep rough, “you okay?” He’s clearly still half asleep, but he’s still holding Akira’s hand, and his voice feels like a balm, like a blanket, and his first thought upon waking was— was to—  
  
Akira throws caution to the wind and scrambles out of bed and onto the floor, and Iwai-san is only able to get out a “What—” before Akira is in his lap and his mouth is on his.  
  
Half asleep or not, Iwai-san opens up to him in an instant, arms crushing Akira in close, as voracious as he was before, and Akira steadies, settles, more himself right now than he’s been in a long while.  
  
“Iwai-san,” he says, breathless, feeding the words into his mouth, and then forgets whatever is was he wanted to say, letting out a high, breathy moan as Iwai-san’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug, baring his throat.  
  
“No,” Iwai-san says against his neck, and it’s a growl, a rumble against his skin. Stubble rubs deliciously over the delicate skin there and Akira shivers and shudders at that and at the way Iwai-san tastes him. “Fuck. Every time you— Call me Munehisa.”  
  
Akira sobs out a yes, tugging mindlessly at Iwai-sa— at Munehisa’s head, his whole body one live wire as teeth scrape over his neck, like it’s too much and not enough all at once, until he can bring their mouths together again. He needs to be closer, and that thought pulses through him, in time to his rapid heartbeat, wants to live inside him and breathe him and exist, safely, in his arms. Akira tugs on Iwai— Munehisa’s bottom lip with his teeth as he tugs at his tank top, desperate to remove it, and then Iw— Munehisa is pushing him down onto the futon with a growl and ripping the top free from his body, immediately forgotten. Akira scrambles out of his own tshirt and then tugs him back down with greedy hands, and Munehisa fits himself between his thighs, weight balanced on his forearms, and kisses him again.  
  
The shock of being skin to skin forces a noise out of him, swallowed up by the man on top of him. Akira’s blunt fingernails dig into Munehisa’s shoulders, arching his body up looking for some measure of relief. Arousal smoulders away inside him, burning under his skin; Akira thinks he might die if he has to stop right now.  
  
“Are you— are you going to leave again, Munehisa?” he stutters out, hooking a leg over Munehisa’s for leverage to rock his hips against him. It’s completely nonsensical; they’re in Munehisa’s apartment— in his _bedroom_ , he won’t be going anywhere. But Akira doesn’t think he could take another _I’ll see you later_ right now.  
  
Munehisa laughs, and it’s as mean as he’s ever heard him sound. “No,” he says, smearing the sound along Akira’s jaw, “you’re not getting rid of me now.” Munehisa’s teeth follow, and Akira gasps as he finds his way back to his neck, raw and sensitive and primed for Munehisa’s touch. A hand is skimmed down his body and Akira arches into like a cat. “All this is mine now, and I don’t share or play well with others.”  
  
It should worry him, the way this dangerous, dangerous man is staking such a claim on him, but Akira only feels a warmth in his chest. “Only child,” he teases, breathless, tugging uselessly at Munehisa’s hair, shuddering non-stop under him.  
  
“You’re lucky I take such good care of my things,” Munehisa says between sucking up marks along the length of his neck.  
  
Akira feels like thrashing, only the weight of Munehisa on top of him keeping him still. “Please— please take care of me, Iwai-san,” he manages, in Ren-chan’s voice, and then cries out as Munehisa bites him in response, high on his neck for anyone to see.  
  
Akira is so very slowly losing it.  
  
“Munehisa, please, I need it.” That large hand around his cock, or maybe even Munehisa’s mouth. Or maybe, if he’s good, Munehisa will push him hands and knees onto the futon and fuck him like he’s been wanting since the first moment he spotted him across the bar.  
  
“Yeah?” Munehisa says, sitting up. He sounds mean again, and Akira thinks of being pushed to his knees and hand-shaped bruises. “Think I like it when you beg.”  
  
Akira’s heart _thu-thumps_ in his chest, a flush of adrenaline to the prickling sense of danger, and Akira is coming to understand that he must have a slightly broken danger reflex because he longs for it.  
  
“You should do more things that make me beg.” His hands feel bereft now that he doesn’t have Munehisa’s chest and back to explore so he touches himself instead, cupping himself through his jeans as his other hand grazes his chest, luxuriating in the attention.  
  
“Take them off,” Munehisa says as Akira’s breathing hitches. “Get on the bed. Lie still for me.”  
  
His voice is as dark as his gaze is, like the night sky or the deep blue sea. His orders sink into his hind brain and Akira is moving unthinkingly, tugging at his jeans and boxers to discard them before climbing back onto the bed. He lays down as Munehisa goes for his bedside table, aching for the relief of his hand, but stilling under the strength of Munehisa’s words.  
  
“Good boy,” Munehisa says as he joins him on the bed, and the warmth of that praise is a relief in and of itself. Munehisa grins like he already knows this, and Akira mentally scrambles for some kind of comeback.  
  
“What’s my reward?” he says, aiming for cheeky but likely missing by a mile. Munehisa had discarded the rest of his clothes as well of course, and Akira leans up on his elbows, letting his gaze skip down the hard planes of Munehisa’s chest and the trail of dark hair on his stomach to the heavy sway of his cock.  
  
Akira licks his lips, mouth is suddenly dry.  
  
Munehisa shifts, and he’s closer now, so close that Akira could reach out, smooth his hands up his thighs to his— but no, he’s supposed to be still. “That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble,” Munehisa says, and it takes a couple of seconds for the words to register.  
  
“But it also gets me out of trouble,” he says, hands twisting into the sheets to avoid any temptation. He hasn’t stopped looking at Munehisa’s cock.  
  
“Yeah? Let’s see how good you are at getting out of trouble then.” Munehisa swings a leg over his body, kneels up astride his chest, and taps his mouth. Akira opens up automatically, staring up wide-eyed up at Munehisa, and then—  
  
His tongue flicks out as the head slides across his bottom lip, and then his jaw is being stretched to aching as Munehisa slips his hand under his head and pushes inside.  
  
Akira’s hands find purchase on Munehisa’s thighs, making a faint, muffled, shocked noise as his head his tipped back and Munehisa pushes into the tunnel of his mouth. Straddling his chest like this, looking down on him with dark, dark eyes, he looks like some kind of god and Akira gazes up at him adoringly as he slides his mouth along the length, hungry motions in and out. Maybe this is what people mean when they talk about religious experiences; Munehisa takes and Akira gives and there’s a certain kind of euphoria in it.  
  
Munehisa doesn’t make much noise, so Akira learns how he’s doing by how his stomach muscles clench, how his fingers twist in his hair. He’s blindingly aroused now, fingers digging marks into Munehisa’s thighs, thinks he could probably come like this if Munehisa told him too, even with the way his neck twinges and his jaw aches.  
  
It gets sloppier the longer it goes on, spit and pre-come slipping down his chin, but Munehisa seems to love it, going from rocking his hips to shallow thrusts. Munehisa groans the first time he chokes and his eyes prick with tears, and heat twists in his gut for one bright moment. But then Munehisa is dragging himself free to Akira’s cry of dismay, spit connecting them for one taut moment, wild eyes staring down at him.  
  
“Roll over,” Munehisa says and pulls away, voice as wrecked as how Akira feels. He’s breathing heavily, cock slick and dark between his thighs, and even though Akira feels hollowed out, throat scraped raw, he’s desperate to have it again, any way he can.  
  
“Please,” he says as he eels over onto his front, face down and knees drawn up. A hand skates down his spine, deepening the arch of his back and he bites down on a sob. “Please, I’ve been— Munehisa please I need it.”  
  
There’s the click of a bottle cap, and Munehisa rumbles out a “Keep going,” his large hand settling on his lower back. Slick fingers slip between his cheeks and Akira’s toes curl in anticipation.  
  
“A-Ah— please, Munehisa, please I need it so much, I need you.” The words are just spilling out, the stopper finally removed. He can’t bite it back this time when a finger finally sinks into him, thicker than his own, suddenly so much after wanting it for so long. “No one— no one touches me like you, didn’t let anyone touch me like you do—” He stops, cursing as that gets him a second finger to join the first. Munehisa thrusts them in and out roughly, patience evidently as low as Akira’s, and Akira just keeps going, mouth running freely, every secret thought just tumbling free over the slick, wet backdrop of Munehisa’s fingers.  
  
Eventually they’re pulled free, replaced with the blunt head of Munehisa’s cock, and Akira scrambles at the sheets at the sheer sensation of the stretch. He feels huge going in, an inexorable press inwards, and for the first time Akira feels oh so very breakable. But god the slow friction is a tease, an itch not properly being scratched.  
  
Akira sobs when Munehisa finally bottoms out, his whole body trembling, teetering on the edge, and then Munehisa _moves_ and white hot pleasure shoots up his spine. Akira cries out, and Munehisa thrusts in again, and it’s like his spine is melting, like the pleasure is drowning out everything else, like every thought that’s not Munehisa is being removed, cored out to make room for the cock inside him.  
  
His orgasm takes him by surprise, though all things considered it really shouldn’t have. The angle changes and suddenly that pressure inside him twists and Akira is coming into the bedsheets beneath him with a sob.  
  
“Fuck,” Munehisa grunts behind him, grip going bruise tight. “ _Fuck_.” His speed slows and, suddenly scared that Munehisa is about to stop, Akira reaches back with one hand, hooking it behind Munehisa’s thigh.  
  
“Don’t stop,” he begs, slurs, words blurred together through his panting, “please don’t stop.”  
  
Munehisa makes a rough sound, and Akira feels one hand close over the back of his neck while the other claws in at his hip. The next thrust jolts his whole body, as does the next, fucking breathy _ah_ sounds out of him as he claws at the sheets, the pleasure so sharp it could almost be classed as pain. His body is singing with it, shaking apart with, Munehisa’s hands the only reason why he doesn’t shatter.  
  
It doesn’t take long for him to feel that familiar heat in the pit of his stomach. The ache in his cock is indistinguishable from the simmering in the rest of his body, and Akira gasps into his arms as he burns up. It’s more intense than it was before; Munehisa holds him down— holds him _still_ , positioned for his pleasure and fucking him so deep; Akira is sure he won’t be able to think of anything else ever again.  
  
He hopes he’s being good enough for Munehisa, he thinks somewhat deliriously. That the slap of his hips against his ass feels as good for him as it does for Akira. He hopes he has bruises when it’s over, Munehisa’s ownership branded into his skin. He hopes Munehisa knows that Akira would have gotten to his knees for him from day one, that he would have knelt between his spread thigh and worshipped him. That each night after saying goodbye he would go up to his room and get himself off thinking about it.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Munehisa says, desperate, “fuck, just stop talking, you’re _so_ —” and Akira realises that he’s been talking the entire time, a steady stream of filth.  
  
“It’s true,” he gasps, “anything, please, take what you want I’m—”  
  
“I’m going to _ruin_ you,” Munehisa grits out, pace stuttering, and Akira gasps out a yes, to that and to the way Munehisa slides his hand down and around Akira’s cock because god, that’s all it takes. His touch lights him up inside and Akira’s vision shorts out and he comes hard for a second time. A couple of thrusts later, Munehisa is coming too, and Akira lets out a trembling moan, feeling wonderfully used.  
  
The world stills, silence falling like the snow in the winter. Munehisa pulls out and Akira makes a faint noise of discontent, too loose and too open without Munehisa there. Come leaks from him, but that barely registers in his mind. Right now he’s sweaty and trembling, limbs like jelly, but it’s into Munehisa’s arms that he falls when he slumps to the side.  
  
“Hey,” he whispers. Munehisa slots their legs together and slings an arm across his waist, splaying his hand possessively over his chest, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the bright red of the koi splashing through rolling waves.  
  
“Hey,” Munehisa says back, mouth dragging stubble against his cheek. Like this, with nothing between them except a handful of atoms, Akira feels calm radiate out from every point of contact. Each exhale tickles his cheek and each inhale moves his body and in the pool of his mind the waters sit still for once. Akira wonders how much of it is the mindblowing sex he just had, and how much of it is purely down to the man behind him.  
  
“So...” he begins, after another long moment’s silence.  
  
“So...?” Munehisa prompts, sounding both exasperated and like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.  
  
Akira turns his face to the bedsheets, hiding his cat-smug grin. “Did you enjoy your reward, Munehisa? If not, I did say you could collect as many times as you wanted.”  
  
Munehisa hums. “You did say that, didn’t you?” There is no discernable change in tone, no overt movement, but Akira is suddenly very aware of the hand on his chest and the thigh nestled between his. He swallows, and the ache in his throat makes itself known.  
  
“Like I said,” he says, stuttering slightly as Munehisa places a kiss on his cheek, and then the corner of his mouth. “I owe you a lot,” but the last word is lost as Munehisa nudges his face up to take his mouth and Akira is washed away by it, the drugging motion, senses consumed by it.  
  
“Call this your second instalment,” Munehisa says, greedy mouth slipping to his neck, and then his chest, moving ever lower, and Akira gasps his agreement.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Eyes up.”  
  
Akira flicks his gaze up to the ceiling, and with a deft twist of her wrist a wet line of eyeliner is carefully applied.  
  
“You know Ren-chan,” Lala-chan says after a moment of silent work, like she does every time she has to do his make up. Akira would mouth it along with her if he didn’t think the movement would jog her hand. “You should probably learn how to do your own makeup at some point.”  
  
Akira gives her his best smile. “But I’ll always have you, won’t I, Lala-chan?”  
  
Lala-chan finishes applying the mascara to his fake lashes, and then runs her fingers through his fringe until it sits to her liking. “That may be true but don’t think I don’t see you trying to manipulate me, Ren-chan.”  
  
Akira slips out from under her hands, laughing, and heads out of the bathroom and towards his bag so he can get changed for tonight.  
  
It’s the red dress tonight, the gift he received last winter. A little celebration for having made it through his first year of university, exams and all. Tomorrow he’ll be meeting up with some friends for a proper celebration, but this is enough for him tonight. He carefully pulls on a pair of stockings to match, dabs on some perfume, and then slides on his shoes and heads out to the bar.  
  
To think that it’s been a year since he arrived in Tokyo with nothing but a hope and prayer. Akira’s not one to get sentimental, not really,  
but for someone who had no choice but to jump free from the plane, he’s managed to stick the landing pretty well. A job — or well, several, but who’s counting really — that he enjoys, a safe place to stay, a close group of friends, and— well.  
  
Akira doesn't look up from where he's serving a group of salarymen at the bar; he's not so unprofessional as to have his attention wander so obviously, but somehow he doesn't need to to know who has stepped through the a door, a little frisson of awareness going through his body.  
  
Despite the pull, Akira finishes out the transaction, with a coy look through his lashes and a gentle brush of his fingers.  
He has them hook, line, and sinker as he takes their yen and counts out their change, but he’s already dismissed them from his mind, only affording them the miniscule level of attention they deserve.  
  
Once they’ve shuffled off to one of the tables, Lala-chan approaches with a glass of top shelf whiskey served neat, and says, "Here, take this to your man before the sexual tension sets my poor bar alight."  
  
With his back to the rest of the bar, Akira feels free to roll his eyes, and then again as Lala-chan starts laughing, but he does as he's told because, well, she’s not wrong.  
  
He sets the glass down on a paper napkin in front of him with a bow and a murmured, “Here you go, Iwai-san,” just for the disgruntled cat face that Munehisa pulls when he does. “Please let me know how I can be of service.”  
  
The heavy way Munehisa looks at him answers that question well enough but they’ll have to save that for later. He bows and goes to retreat, but the arm Munehisa slides around his waist stops him from leaving.  
  
“Yes, Iwai-san?” Akira asks, not even trying to hide his grin this time.  
  
Munehisa clicks his lollipop over to the other corner of his mouth, even as it tips up in amusement. “You gonna let me see you tonight?”  
  
“Sorry, Iwai-san,” Akira says, unable to even attempt the pretence of keeping a straight face, “my boyfriend wouldn’t be too pleased if I did.”  
  
Munehisa laughs. “Brat,” he says, fondly, and from where his arm sits around Akira’s waist, his thumb sweeps a wide arc over his hip.  
  
In Munehisa’s pocket his phone chimes. He fishes it out for a brief glance at the screen, rolls his eyes, and then looks up at Akira apologetically.  
  
“Duty calls,” he says, somewhat wryly. He slides his arm up to tap Akira on the cheek, and when he opens his mouth — a Pavlovian reaction if there ever was one — pushes his lollipop inside. “Hold onto this for me,” he says, with a smile that says he knows precisely the effect he’s having on Akira.  
  
The taste of cinnamon melts over his senses, and Akira touches a hand to the lollipop stick, head spinning, as Munehisa knocks back his drink and gets to his feet.  
  
Quietly, as though it’s just the two of them, as though nothing else exists, Munehisa says, “I’ll see you later.”  
  
Akira smiles. “Of course, Munehisa.”

**Author's Note:**

> akira's close group of friends (that i wasn't able to completely fit into the fic) include:
> 
> \- that one girl from his ethics group
> 
> \- two blonds and a brunette that he met on the metro one afternoon after they went ham on some pervert who tried to cop a feel
> 
> \- that sweet girl who came in while he was working in the flower shop who he ended up talking with for ages and who also goes to todai
> 
> \- the eccentric artist from that one time he signed up to model for some extra cash
> 
> \- the brunette in some of his classes who seems to hate his guts and has an aggressive and one sided rivalry going on but never says no when akira asks him to hang out
> 
> \- sojiro's - quite frankly absolutely terrifyingly smart - daughter


End file.
